


The Solitary Soldier

by scribblesandscreeds



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU where there never was any romance between John and Sherlock, Angst, Depression, Happy Fun Times, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, References to Suicide, Sholtolock, WIP, no actual smut, so very much WIP, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblesandscreeds/pseuds/scribblesandscreeds
Summary: Let us imagine, for a moment, that there genuinely never was any deliberate attempt made to portray the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as a romantic one. I know it's difficult, but imagine with me. Sherlock has not been pining for John. John has not been pining for Sherlock. They're just best mates who frequently get mistaken for a couple by the people who know them the best.So, a question was asked that still needs to be answered - who leaves a wedding early?Someone who has somewhere else to be. Someone who had someone else to see. Someone who fell for a different soldier.





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

“Where have you been all weekend? You haven’t answered any of my texts, I actually tried calling you and it went straight to voicemail, and Mrs. Hudson could only say that you were away!”

“Why were you asking?”

“I was worried about you!”

“Bless you John, you are sweet. I have had the most wonderful two days, being most exceptionally busy.”

“Doing what?”

Sherlock giggled.

“Wrong interrogative.”

John stared at him, brows knitted. Sherlock wanted to make a game of it? He could stand to go for a round of Twenty Questions. Okay, so, interrogatives. _What, where, why, when, who, how, whither, wherefore_ and _whence…_ If it wasn’t a _what_ he’d been doing, then-

“Doing… who?”

“Warmer.”

“You met somebody new?”

“Nope.”

“It was somebody you already knew?”

“Yup.”

“Anyone I know?”

“You introduced us.”

Well, that narrowed it down. It narrowed it down a bit too far.

“When have I ever introduced you to a woman?” Except the ones he’d dated, of course. Oh bloody hell, surely not-

“Why on earth would you think it was a woman?” Sherlock breezily derailed that train of thought. John blinked.

“Well, there was Janine-”

“Subterfuge, as you well know.”

“Irene-”

“Subterfuge again, but on her part.”

“But you said she was the most brilliant, astounding woman you’d ever met.”

“She is. She was. Doesn’t mean I want to fuck her.” He giggled again, with a childishly sly smile. “But if you’re thinking it was one of your old flames, you’re not wrong.”

John’s brain was still in the process of thinking _someone I introduced him to, male, who he’s deduced I had a thing with_ when his mouth blurted

“You’ve been fucking _James Sholto?_ ” His eyebrows apparently didn’t like the noise, and tried to escape up into his hair.

“Nope.” Sherlock pressed his lips together, entirely failing to suppress a grin. John looked just about ready to throw in the towel and have himself sectioned, so he took pity on him. “Okay, yes, I did spend a lovely weekend with Major Sholto. I’m just being pedantic.”

“What do you mean by peda- oh, Christ, Sherlock. That is not a level of detail I needed to know.”

Sherlock just snorted and laughed again.

“But John, you’re the only one who knows how good he is! Who else can I compare notes with? I mean - you remember Kandahar?”

John felt his stomach grow heavy.

“He told you about Kandahar?”

“Oh no. No, he demonstrated.”

“And you can still walk?” he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Not easily.” Sherlock’s lips flirted with a smile, then leapt into bed with it. He laughed, seized John’s hands, and spun around with him. “But I can still dance!”

John narrowed his eyes, once he’d got his balance back. Not that he needed glasses, whatever Mary might pointedly not say when she looked too directly at him holding his phone too close to his face, making him realise that he was doing it. Sherlock was flushed. Euphoric. Unguarded.

“Are you high?” he asked flatly.

“I don’t need to be.” The implied denial was unheated, matter-of-fact. It gave him pause, but he couldn’t, in good conscience, just accept it.

“That’s never stopped you before.” His former flatmate flopped down into his chair with a wince and a groan. “Sherlock. Tell me.”

“No, John, I am not high. There are all sorts of lovely chemicals sloshing around my brain at the moment, but not a single one of them is artificial. I have partaken of nothing of that sort all weekend. Scout’s honour.”

“Not even alcohol?”

“Do you mean to ask if he got me drunk before having his wicked way with me half a dozen times, in several different ways, some of which were remarkably athletic for a man who is partially paralysed down most of one side of his body?” A laugh bubbled up out of him. “No. He did not get me drunk.”

“Oh, my god.”

“That’s what I said. Eleven times.”

“You - Jesus Christ!”

“And that, but only six. It got repetitive quickly, so I switched my blaspheming into French. He liked that.”

“Right, um - okay, so - so you’re okay.”

“Aside from a little difficulty in walking, I am _wonderful._ "

“Good. Good. Well, uh… Mary’s waiting in the car, I’d better go before some poor unsuspecting parking warden comes along and she does some permanent damage.”

Sherlock gave no sign of having heard him.

“I used to wonder why your combat trauma manifested as a limp, when it was your shoulder that got shot. But now that I know what you were getting up to-” he snorted and giggled again, “getting up _you_ in Afghanistan, I can conclude that the mystery is solved.”

John tried to block the images that sprang up in his mind, formed all too easily of his own explicit memories but with Sherlock superimposed in his place, and of course the harder he tried the clearer and more persistent they were. It didn’t seem to bother Sherlock to let his friend think of him like that, but it made him feel deeply uncomfortable. 

_Pink elephants. Try not to think about pink elephants. Big neon pink elephants, small baby pink elephants, some pink elephants as big as your head. Pink elephants with sprinkles on top. Pink elephants._

That was better. He had a parade of fuschia pachyderms marching through his mind now, not - something other than surreal magenta hued Dumbos.

He fiddled with his keys in his pocket as he made for the door, before remembering that he wasn’t going to lock it after himself.

“John?” Sherlock surprised him by acknowledging his existence. “Give my love to Mary.”

“Will do.” he replied automatically.

“If you remember that thing James taught you to do with your tongue, that ought to suffice to convey the message. I’m not entirely sure how you would adapt it for a woman, but I know you can work it out.”

 

 

“Is he okay?” 

“Yeah, he’s fine.”

“Then why do you look shell shocked?”

“He’s... got a boyfriend.”

“Jealous?”

“Mary!” 

She shrugged, and flicked the indicators on to pull away from the kerb.

“Well, it’s good to know he’s got over you so quickly. Is it someone you know?”

“It’s Major Sholto.”

“Bloody hell.” That, and the fact that he hadn’t made any complaint about her little joke, made her look at him. Yup, shell shocked. “So… jealous?”

“No, I’m not jealous. It’s just really weird.”

“Your ex-flatmate, and your ex.”

“Ex-commanding officer, yes.”

“He’s your more regular kind of ex as well, though, isn’t he? Blimey. Sherlock’s fucking Sholto. Well, good for him.”

“Other way around.” John couldn’t stop himself from saying.

“Should I be worried that you know that, John?”

“I barely got out of there before he started giving me a blow-by-blow account.”

Mary snorted.

“You can laugh, you don’t have to have that image in your head!”

“True, I don’t _have_ to.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Aww, I think it’s lovely. Kind of scuppers my plan for suggesting a threesome, though.”

At which point it was just as well that Mary was driving, because John would probably have parked the car around a lamppost.


	2. Chapter 2

“Why do you do this?” James asked after hours of near-silence. “Come all the way out here, giving up your time and energy, just to spend it on a mutilated old soldier who receives more death threats than birthday cards?”

Sherlock had been waiting for him to say something, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why. James had been outwardly little different to his usual self for the whole time they had been lying together, not quite fully awake but far from asleep, on the living room sofa.  
This was an absurdly huge three seater upholstered in sage green leather(“Sage, the beige of green”, Sherlock had judged drily before having his face shoved down into the seat and his opinions on interior decor forcibly driven from his mind) that still failed to dominate the capacious room, and had now been fucked on more times than it had been sat on. Even counting the fucks that had included one of them in a sitting position as instances of being sat on.  
Aside from the occasional fidget or repositioning of a limb, they had barely moved all afternoon; just rested, skin to skin, neither demanding anything from the other, enjoying their quiet proximity. Nonetheless Sherlock could tell that something was wrong. Something was bothering James, something was making him uncomfortable. He couldn't name the specific details that told him so - he just knew. What he didn't know was whether this fully formed, no-deduction-necessary awareness of his soldier's mood was a good or a bad sign.

“It wouldn't be fair to demand that you come to Baker Street.”

James huffed at his attempt at misdirection.

“Altruism, I suppose. Pity.” he wondered aloud. “Could be a sort of charity work.”

“You allowing an inner city drug addict to stay at your luxurious country estate, for days at a time, at no charge? I suppose it could.”

“Sherlock, please. I don't understand what you get out of this. The inconvenience of getting here alone outweighs any material benefits. Why do you keep coming here?”

“Simple. I'm selfish.”

“Selfish.” James echoed. Sherlock had said it as if it was obvious and self-explanatory, and it left him flummoxed as hell.

“Of course. I’m an utterly inconsiderate, self-centred hedonist, caring for nothing but my own pleasure, and you make me come harder, and longer, and _more_ in just about any metric that you care to name, than anyone else on the planet ever has. And before you ask, no, I've never fucked an astronaut.”

“So it's just the sex.”

“Would I be lying here _not_ riding your magnificent dick if it was just the sex? Hardly. My solipsism knows no bounds - I indulge shamelessly in your sympathy and generosity. I luxuriate in the laziness of dropping my guard in your presence, exploiting your tolerance of me not bothering to create and maintain a polite, respectable mask. I hoard, just to bask in it, the precious rarity of having someone who understands me.”

“I don't think it's possible for anyone to understand you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, then. Look at you, achieving the impossible. The Queen of Hearts would be proud.”

James said nothing, instead returning to his maudlin introspection. 

“Why do you keep inviting me back?” Sherlock asked, hooking him back up before he could sink far. 

“You keep accepting.”

“Effect, not cause. Why do you repeatedly allow me to come here? Is it just the phenomenal sex?”

At least that made him smile.

“You seem to…” James sought after a word that wouldn't make a contradiction of his previous denial. He couldn't find one. “Understand. What it's like, to be lonely. To be hated, for doing what you know in your heart was right. And to have someone save your life when you least expected it.”

“That was one time.” Sherlock said, dismissively.

“It's been three times, so far.”

Surprising Sherlock was a rare accomplishment. James could not savour it.

_“What?”_

“You know about the first. You persuaded me not to kill myself - I could mince my words and say ‘allow myself to be killed’, but really, it's the same thing - for John's sake. You were right, of course. It would have been unforgivable to do that to him. I kept thinking, all the way to the hospital and even through surgery, how ungrateful it would be for me to die then. What a callous waste it would be of all your effort, and on top of that, of all the nurses, and doctors, and surgeons, of the wasted trip in the ambulance, which should have been sent to someone who really needed it. I would have to be a monster to kill myself after all that. But once I was in recovery, I had nothing but my own thoughts for company. One in particular started getting louder every time I scolded myself for thinking about suicide - so what? I would be remembered as a weak coward for taking the easy way out. So what? I would be hated a little bit more for wasting valuable medical resources. So what? I’ll be remembered as a murderer anyway, so what difference does it make if I'm a weak, cowardly, ungrateful one? I still felt guilty at the thought of wasting your time, but at least by then I wouldn't be ruining John’s wedding any more. I had resolved to do it when you showed up.”

“I _asked_ you.” Sherlock said fiercely, throwing a protective leg and then, deeming a single leg insufficient, his whole body over him. He planted his hands on either side of his head so that he was half lying on and half crouched over him, staring straight down into eyes as oceanic as his own and giving them nowhere to hide. “I asked you _and you said no.”_

“And I meant it. I decided that very moment not to.”

“Why?”

“You changed everything. I barely even knew you, but I couldn't do that to you. The second you walked in, killing myself wouldn't just have been weak, cowardly, and ungrateful - it would have been cruel. I didn't give a shit about my posthumous reputation. But I couldn't leave you knowing that you were the last person to see me alive. You're sensitive and passionate-” Sherlock scoffed. “-you are. You argued so desperately to keep me alive at the hotel. _‘We_ wouldn't do that to John’, remember? Not ‘you’. I knew you would have replayed every moment for a sign, wondering what you missed. You would have been eaten alive by the thought that if only you’d known what I was planning, you might have been able to stop me.”

Sherlock sat back. He observed, on autopilot, that the exact same pose in the exact same location had seen him howl and convulse from an orgasm so strong it had made his entire mind white out not even twenty four hours previously. Irrelevant. Not boring, but still irrelevant. 

“You were going to do it right then?” 

And god damn it, now that he had the conclusion to reach, confirmation bias flowed smoothly into action to contextualise the signs that he had indeed seen at the hospital. There had been a disappointment and a relief in James’ demeanour. A calm euphoria that had deserted him when Sherlock arrived, a weariness that had returned, which he had attributed(perhaps willfully blinkered) to the drugs wearing off.

“Probably in a couple of hours. At shift change.”

“You were planning to kill yourself in a hospital. Where they keep people alive professionally.”

“A challenge, but not an insurmountable one.” A brave little smile clung to his lips. In a way, managing to kill himself while surrounded by an army of people amply equipped to stop him would have been quite an achievement. A last _fuck you_ to the world, but also a last demonstration that he was not powerless, that he could decide his own fate despite impressive obstacles. 

“Oh, James.” Sherlock dropped back down to seize his face between both hands and kiss what he couldn't articulate directly into his mouth. His horror that it had so nearly happened. His paradoxical grief for the loss of something he would never have known if that grief had something to be based on. That he didn't blame him. 

A hand trailed up his naked back to rest between his shoulderblades. A gentle squeeze prompted him to break contact, which he did by a matter of millimetres, putting as notional a distance between them as possible.

“If it's any comfort to you, right now, I am very glad that I did not end my life.” 

James shifted underneath the comforting weight of him, just for the joy of feeling his muscles move. He dropped his hand impulsively to squeeze a lean buttock.

“Good. Don't.”

“I can't promise you that.” James’ simple refusal was more reassuring than any comforting lie. “I wish I could, but I can't be sure I’ll never feel that way again. It would be dangerous and delusional to assume that I’ll never want to do it again. Without wanting to put any pressure on you, though, it seems a lot less likely with you around.”

“When was the third time?” Sherlock asked him softly. 

“When you first came here.” James couldn't really look away, so he closed his eyes instead. He hadn't expected the wash of shame that had accompanied that confession. It made his eyes sting.

“You didn't think I would.” Sherlock hadn't expected his voice to come out sounding so hurt.

“I was afraid you wouldn't. I was so looking forward to it - what a wonderful thing, to have someone want to see me, choose to spend time with me, actually seem to like me - but at dawn that morning I had a moment of perfect clarity. I could see how pathetic I was to be so desperate for so little. At the same time, I was aware that it was more than I deserved, and began to convince myself that you would realise the same thing. Then a little voice whispered in my ear that maybe you had realised it from the start, and were punishing me and amusing yourself by stringing me along, building my hopes up for the fun of demolishing them and I _told_ myself that that was ridiculous, that it was _stupid_ , that however much I deserve it you wouldn't _do_ that-” He cut off abruptly. His throat had closed up with no warning. He heaved a deep breath, and another. Sherlock gave him room and said nothing.

“It kept circling round. How I had no right to expect you. That it proved how pointless and empty my life was that I had made it matter so much. That maybe the whole idea of you visiting had just been a joke from the start, and if it had, I deserved it. I couldn't make it stop until I resolved that if you didn't come, it was a clear sign that I had outstayed my welcome in this world and my old service revolver would fit nicely into my mouth to usher me out of it.”

Sherlock recoiled with a harsh breath and a full-body spasm. 

_Looking him straight in the eyes shaking his hand it was cold no hesitation gun in his mouth couldn't stop him the **noise** his hand squeezed tight it was cold that should have warned him couldn't stop him why the fuck hadn't he remembered he was left-handed he couldn't stop him_

“Sherlock?”

_so little blood shouldn't head wounds gush but without his heart beating it was late spring on the ground but up here it was still winter he looked so **smug** he couldn't stop him had he even wanted him dead when he’d pointed a gun at him no he’d just wanted to stop him but he couldn't stop him_

“It's not here, Sherlock, whatever it is, it's not now, come back to me-”

_he should have **known** he should have **seen** he couldn't stop him the look on his face he couldn't stop him the triumph even as he pulled the trigger he’d had his hand on him he’d been holding onto him but he couldn't stop him couldn't stop him **couldn't stop him**_

“Sherlock!”

 

There was an arm, warm and alive, tight around his waist. He was sitting up. Somehow they both were. The man he was wrapped around was warm and alive. How many times had he said his name? Did it matter? He was warm. He was alive. The side of his face was damaged, but his skull was intact. He hadn't put a gun in his mouth. He hadn't pulled the trigger.

Sherlock tasted salt. He was slowly regaining the ability to breathe, which came as a bit of a surprise, as he hadn't been aware of losing it. But then he hadn't been there, he had been paralysed on the roof of St Barts, watching Moriarty shoot himself again and again and again. His throat felt raw. He had been sobbing, hopefully, not screaming. _Not sore enough to have been caused by screaming_ , his helpful little background autopilot detective chipped in, going on to point out that he had lots of lovely fresh data on the causes, sensation, and short-term physical impact of screaming.

“I stopped you.”

The words didn’t disturb his brain before leaving his mouth.

James was too disciplined to sigh and sag with relief, but it was there in the audible exhalation and the blink that was too long to be a blink.

“You did. Without even knowing it.” He gently stroked wayward curls out of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock leaned into the touch. “Can you tell me what that was about?”

“You know that time I jumped off a hospital?”

“Your cunning plan to fake your death?”

“I didn't really expect to have to do it. But then that psychotic bastard put a gun in his mouth.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look, it grew. Backwards. But still.


End file.
